Music
by All Galimatias
Summary: They couldn't agree on the colour of the sky, let alone what made a good song.
1. Chapter 1

There were very few things they agreed on. Or rather, there were very few things that they openly agreed on. Usually each made a point of adopting the opposite opinion of the other, in matters mostly trivial but also serious. Out of habit and a sort of lack of reason to do otherwise are two reasons why.

They did not agree that black was always in fashion (because it one thought it hideous, one perfect in that shade, ripped and threaded with safety pin) and they did not agree that a commissioned double bed was worth the money or the effort of getting it up stairs (because one thought it was an excellent idea to get a cheap one from IKEA and the other was traumatised at the very thought).

They did not even agree that the sky was blue (They'd argue the shade and one would point out that the sky could be orange, pink, purple at different times of the day, and black at night if it felt so inclined. And the other never saw the sky blue, because the other was English and English skies are grey and overcast so there.)

Ask anyone, their friends, their families, the cashier at their local supermarket who had to stay fifteen extra minutes on the till as they shouted the pros and cons of ready meals at each other, one at the checkout and the other in the aisle (she might have called security and had them physically removed, but it had been quite entertaining); they rarely agreed on anything.

Music was not an exception to this.

* * *

><p>The house that Arthur and Francis share is by this point very much their own. The walls of the hallway are adorned with photos, of grinning faces and beautiful views, stolen kisses and chases through crowded streets, moments caught in time. There's a little glass table near the door that somehow matches the very old fashioned phone that rests upon it, and an address book that's filled with handwriting, neat and scrawled.<p>

The kitchen is covered with a smattering of post-it notes (blue and green, Francis' and Arthur's respectively, reminders to get milk, reminders that Arthur is not an idiot and doesn't need to be reminded to get milk, reminders that the last time France didn't remind Arthur that he had to get milk Arthur didn't get milk and was cranky for a whole evening because he didn't like milk-less tea, reminders that Francis was a git and that he was now lacking a small sum of money because Arthur had taken it so he could buy milk) and a coffee maker and kettle reside comfortably together on the counter top. The downstairs bathroom door is crammed with writing, French poems and quotes, because the door is opposite the toilet and makes for a more sophisticated use of time, Francis says, and Arthur finds it to amusing to dispute (but at one point he taped a huge poster of one of Churchill's speeches over the whole thing, a poster that very quickly happened to trip into a shredder).

But one of the most interesting rooms is the living room. It is a mix of styles, sleek and modern combining with old and comfortable. There's a sofa near a very new television connected to a battered VCR that's made of black leather with soft cushions, and there's a second sofa near the fire place that's worn and years old, covered by a thick purple throw that just about conceals the furniture's tatty appearance but doesn't take away its comfort. There are three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that are crammed with all manner of writings; fairy tales, history novels, adventure stories, cook books, French musicals and English plays, all mixed together and stacked up.

There is a CD player, tightly fitted into a gap between Charles Dickens and Alexandre Dumas, and a tape player on the shelf above it. An iPod dock is on the window sill, and a record player in the space between the wall and a piano, and a guitar is leaning against that. All around the room are stacks of CD's, some bought and others burned, Vinyl's, tapes, empty cases and full ones. One stack of plastic containers reach so high that they've turned into a make-shift table by the more battered sofa and the top most one bears a coffee stain.

Arthur and Francis are very fond of music. Recent music, rap, metal, pop, old music like classical, folk all and any kinds. But what is very important is that they were not fond of the same music. Both were very biased. Most often what they liked to listen to was determined on one very simple thing; whether the artist was French, or whether they were English.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur has already disappeared out of the house by the time Francis' wakes up. Today is a Tuesday and Arthur always gets up at six on a Tuesday so he's at work in time for his seven o'clock radio show. This afternoon he'll be on at five, and at that time for the rest of the week until Sunday, which he has off. Francis' knows Arthur's work routine better than he does. He never listens to the show (unless one of Arthur's friends warns him to, which is how the world avoided complete destruction when Arthur proposed to him on air). This is because Arthur always plays awful music, and Francis has told him more than once that if he ever plays anything by Oxmo Puccino (a spur of the moment suggestion) he might be tempted to listen. Arthur flat out refused.

One afternoon Francis' puts in one of his favourite French opera CD's into his CD player. Arthur is sprawled out along the sofa reading a book and does not react. Grinning, Francis mentally celebrates the fact that after he's pressed play Arthur's not allowed to change the music till it's finished, one of their self-imposed and probably going to end up short-lived rules to attempt at a more peaceful home life. The button in question is pressed. Nothing unspeakable awful happens- Francis was expecting an awful booby-trap as revenge for his lengthy explanation as to how mind-numbingly evil and deafening Arthur's stupid heavy metal was yesterday. There is a few seconds of pause as the machine reads the disk.

Then the speakers start screaming out an eardrum exploding mess of guitar chords and screechy singers, and Francis reels back in abject horror. He moves through his shock, about to open the CD player or maybe smash it to pieces if it's a quicker way of stopping the din, when Arthur's amused voice reaches his ears.

"Rules, Frog. You can't change the CD now."

Francis spins round. Arthur's propped himself up on his elbows, smirking as he looks over.

"_Rosbif._ You have until I reach you to tell me what you've done to my CD," Francis says threateningly, marching across the room (around a pile of bulky black records) towards the Englishman. Arthur hastily gets up from the sofa.

"Well. I put it into the computer, which was the first hard part. Then I burned one of my heavy metal CD's over your crap French music. It was easy from there."

It takes a record three minutes to lock Arthur out the house. After ten minutes of whining outside the door and complaining that it's cold, he walks off down the street without much prompting. Francis, who's been sitting against the door forlornly glaring at his vandalised CD, pauses in his self-righteous musings. He gets up and gives the door a considering look before walking back to the living room, ignoring a slight sense of guilt and gnawing worry.

After three hours have gone by, Francis is deliberating which would be more aggravating; finding Arthur and dragging him home, or leaving it till tomorrow and finding out Arthur was mugged and tossed in a ditch. He's saved from having to make a decision when a slight thud alerts him to something being pushed through the letter box. He goes into the hallway and spots a blue package sitting on the floor.

"Let me in, you damn wanker," Arthur is ordering through the door, and Francis dutifully ignores him- and the sense of relief that comes with hearing his voice- as he unwraps the object. It's a brand new copy of the CD Arthur murdered, and this one is a two disk set. Francis gives it a moment's thought, then opens the door.

"'Bout bloody time," Arthur grumbles, shoving past the Frenchman as he hops up and down to try and get feeling back into his feet. "It's freezing outside." He gives Francis a worried and questioning look, just briefly, checking that everything is fine and he has been forgiven.

It's okay, he has.

* * *

><p>One warm summer evening Francis comes home to find that Arthur has beaten him to it. The house is warm and welcoming, and he can't smell burnt food so the Englishman hasn't attempted to cook. He can however smell coffee, and he smiles slightly at the gesture. Francis drops his bag in the hall way and kicks off his shoes, digging into his coat pocket to pull out his phone and consult it for text messages or missed calls. He walks towards the kitchen with his face downwards, but very thankfully looks up before he enters.<p>

Arthur has his back to the door, so doesn't see Francis immediately. The CD player is on, and a group of female voices are blaring out of it, quite possibly the Spice Girls but Francis makes a point not to know. Arthur is spinning round the room, lip syncing with the high pitched women's voice, eyes closed. Face slowly splitting into a grin Francis flicks through the options on his phone till he's using the phones video recorder.

"I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want-"

Still happily oblivious, Arthur lifted a whisk out of one of the holders and sung into it like it was a mike. The song continued for another three minutes, and Francis is in silent stitches by the end of it. He backs out of the kitchen and promptly sends the recording to a mutual friend and impressive gossiper. Gilbert was going to love this.

He opens the door again and re-enters the kitchen. Arthur is sitting on the counter top now, drinking his tea.

"Hey Frog," Arthur says with a slight smile, his usual welcome. "You have that disgusting beverage you call coffee over there if you want some."

Francis does not reply, quietly making his way over to the cup and picking it up. He turns back to face Arthur and looks sorrowfully into the dark liquid. Such a shame it was going to be spilt in about three seconds. It'd be worth it though.

"So, _rosbif, _do you think you're Sporty, Baby, Scary, Posh or Ginger?"

Very much worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

Sometimes they can agree.

When an American whirlwind of energy and good intentions that they liked to call Alfred came crashing into their house completely unannounced, they agreed that they should install a better lock, or at least a better alarm system. This is as Francis is cradling the head that Arthur accidently hit when he heard Alfred come in, and as Arthur himself hastily tries to find his clothes and get into them.

They agree that they will never again waste perfectly good coffee or perfectly good tea in attempting to convince Alfred that one is better than the other. They agree this after Alfred bluntly announces with a bright grin that instant coffee is way better than either of the two.

And they both agree whole-heartedly and unanimously that Alfred has an absolutely crap taste in music. They agree this as they look at the stack of CD's Alfred has left them (the topmost one declaring that the artist is Ke$ha, and the use of the American dollar sign in that way is enough to make them both instantly hate her) and in silent agreement they package them up again.

The CD's are dutifully sent to Matthew, Alfred's unfortunate younger brother.

* * *

><p>Occasionally, they can bring themselves to humour the other.<p>

Each year the European's in their group of friends assemble at someone's house to watch the Eurovision song contest finale. Arthur had vehemently argued against going, correctly predicting his nations embarrassing show, but it had been completely unavoidable.

An impressive twenty five people cram into Frøy's living room, each of them with food and drink to share and at least half of them taking up far more space than they should need due to the volume they were 'talking' in. It is the price that the winner of last year's competition has to pay- they host the next Eurovision party.

Arthur is dropping off by the time they reach the eighteenth performer, sat on the floor resting against Francis' legs, the Frenchman absently petting his hair as he and Antonio (a Spaniard who was more Francis' friend that Arthur's) tries to convince Gilbert (both Francis' friend and Arthur's drinking buddy) that egging the house of whoever organised Eurovision would not by any stretch of the imagination result in Prussia being given a representative next year.

The presenter announces the next nation to sing and Francis promptly ducks out of the discussion.

"Our turn!" he sings, looking excitedly at the television. He prods Arthur awake and pulls him up into his lap. "I was awake for yours, Arthur, and it was _épouvantable."_

Arthur hits him, but obligingly opens his eyes to watch. "Oh God, you would have to be one of the, what, four countries that decides not to sing in English."

He is showered with snacks by mildly affronted countries who were disappointed by this same fact.

Francis sniggers and rests his chin on Arthur's shoulder to see past him. The song starts and it only takes a few seconds for Francis to push Arthur up onto his feet.

"What are you-" Arthur begins crossly, but Francis is up as well and taking his hands.

"We have to dance!" Francis says, tone stern at the same time as amused. He starts jumping about, like the French men and women on the stage, dragging Arthur with him.

"Oh God," Arthur says tiredly, as Gilbert and Antonio start cackling. "And you two can shut up."

"Dance," Francis orders and Arthur reluctantly starts to mimic him. By the time the chorus comes round for a second time, Francis is singing along and some of the others are bounding around too. Frøy is shouting at some of the Scandinavians to get off his sofa.

The song finishes and Francis looks disappointed, but sits back down, pulling Arthur with him and linking his arms round Arthur's waist contentedly.

"That was fun," he murmurs into Arthur's ear, and the Englishman lets out a non-comitial noise that Francis decodes to be an agreement. "Better than yours."

Arthur elbows him, but does not argue. And later he is only thankful that everyone forgot about him in wake of the teasing Ludwig got because of the winning entry.


End file.
